


Blame Michael Crichton

by LargeBeefFriedRice



Series: Terrible Tom Imagines [5]
Category: British Actor RPF, Tom Hiddleston - Fandom
Genre: Crack, Farmer Tom, Gen, Nutter Tom, Other, Parody, Terrible Tom Imagines, still not funny, tom hiddleston - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-18
Updated: 2018-08-17
Packaged: 2019-06-28 23:42:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,907
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15717483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LargeBeefFriedRice/pseuds/LargeBeefFriedRice
Summary: Imagine you are some kind of assistant and have been hired on to help the one and only, Tom Hiddleston. Who would have guessed that it is actually a hard job? Or that actors are crazy?Based on the Terrible Tom Imagines Blog on Tumblr.#5: In this two-parter, our story ventures into just how weird your life has gotten and see if anyone can help you.





	1. Part 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hello,  
> Welcome.  
> Let me start off by saying that if you have a Tumblr then please go follow @TerribleTomImagines and @LyingTom (the fabulous creator).  
> Once on the Terrible Tom blog, you should check out all the incredibly funny and genius people who contribute to it!  
> Definitely, don't follow me. It's not worth it. (Unless you want direct links to the specific imagines that inspire each one-shot. But even then you could just go to the actual Terrible Tom blog.)  
> Thank you.  
> p.s. This is just for fun. I do not think anything terrible about Tom Hiddleston or really imagine him this way.

“Tom, this is getting to be a problem. It’s one thing to leave my apartment door open but you can’t leave your own door open too,” the last word ended up dragging out, as you noticed that every light in the place was off.

 

Not a single sound greeted you back as you closed the door behind you and kicked your shoes off.

 

Not even Bobby.

 

**This was not good.**

 

“Tom? Tom?!"

 

You flicked at the light switch in the hallway but nothing happened. Apparently, the power was out.

 

A few months ago you would have worried that the actor hadn’t paid his bills again, but you’d ended up taking over that responsibility for him so that something like this wouldn’t happen. Again.

 

Also, so that you could keep an eye on anything outlandish being charged to him.

 

Like the $600+ electric bill. Which ended up being accurate because for two months Tom had left every light, TV, radio, and computer on while also leaving the AC turned down to 40 degrees Fahrenheit and the fridge door wide open. His reasoning had been that he didn’t want Bobby to get scared, overheat, and starve while he was gone.

 

Bobby wasn’t even in the house. Diana had kept him while everyone was out of the country.

 

Maybe Tom had messed with the breaker again?

 

It could be possible that the power was just randomly out. You hadn’t thought to check for lights at his neighbors’ places.

 

But that still didn’t explain where Tom was.

 

He’d just texted you ten minutes ago to ask when you were getting here.

 

Oh no.

 

**Was he planning something?**

 

"Tom! This isn’t funny. I’m going to leave if you don’t get your scraggly ass out here!”

 

The threat was met with more silence as you continued into the darkened house.

 

This situation clearly had the ‘batshit crazy Tom’ vibe.

 

Just as you started to pass by the entryway to the kitchen, a singular clacking noise started. It startled you and you held your breath as you attempted to identify what that noise was exactly.

 

It sounded familiar.

 

Why?

 

“Tom, seri-” you didn’t get the chance to finish your sentence. As you took another nervous step farther into the hallway, the clacking noise stopped and was replaced by a high pitched screech.

 

You turned around just in time for something to roughly push you down and hold your struggling body against the hardwood floor.

 

Whatever had trapped you gave another loud shriek and then huffed at your hands that were trying to shield your scrunched up face. You gasped loudly in an effort not to scream at whatever was most likely going to kill you.

 

But as it grunted again at you, you realized you recognized the chortled snort sounds.

 

Quickly, you opened your eyes and threw a hasty fist towards your captor.

 

“I’m never letting you watch Jurassic Park again, you dick!” Between your shout and punch, Tom freed you and fell over to the ground next to you.

 

Instead of giving any normal human response, he released a whiny howl and then scuttled off towards his office as if he were really one of the raptors from the 1993 movie.

 

Still slightly shaken, you decided to lay there and catch your breath. There was a good chance that your heart had stopped working but you couldn’t tell over the buzzing in your head.

 

Your thoughts tossed back and forth between:

 

How was he making the claw clacking noise?

 

And:

 

Where the hell was the dog?!

 

~

 

“Luke, I’m actually being serious.”

 

“I don’t doubt that but I can’t risk you saying something and them accidentally spreading what you say.”

 

You scoffed, “That’s ridiculous. They have a code of conduct that prevents them from revealing what I say to them. Besides, you let Tom follow me for a week with a sign with my face on it while asking for me to be fired! How are you going to let him do that but not let me see a therapist?!”

 

You both continued your stare off while Tom sat surprisingly silent next to you. He wrestled his thumbs against each other and even went so far as have them “taunt” one another.

 

“He pretended to be a raptor and attacked me. I actually haven’t slept well since. I keep dreaming that he turns into a real raptor, who quotes Shakespeare and insurance laws, and drags me off to a farmhouse B&B that has a menu dedicated to his nut.”

 

Luke had the dignity to cover his face in embarrassment but you continued to stare at him unfazed. Further proof that therapy was needed. You should be MORE alarmed about the contents of your dream. Instead, you were just upset that they kept waking you up at night.

 

Tom perked up and, for a moment, you thought it was because your dream had given him some ideas. Instead, he said, “I actually know a therapist that I think we could trust.”

 

You and Luke stared at him in amazement.

 

_“Why do you know a therapist?”_  
_“Are you feeling okay?”_

 

He abruptly waved his hands in an irritated manner to stop you both from firing more questions at him.

 

“Do you want his information or not?”

 

~

 

“I’ve got to interrupt your pasta salad story for a second. Are you ready for the washcloth?”

 

Even over the sound of water spraying from the showerhead, you could hear the actor sigh reluctantly, “Yes.”

 

For a few weeks now you had started to semi-supervise Tom’s showers since the man seemed to refuse to bathe. He also refused to actually wash once he’d been wrestled into the shower.

 

This had led to a routine of you corraling him every few days into the bathroom and then sitting on the toilet so you could make sure he used everything right. Also so that you knew he didn’t try to just hop out of the shower after 60 seconds.

 

Tentatively, you pushed the edge of the shower curtain aside and held out the grey washcloth for him. Tom hissed at your hand and then snatched up the offending item.

 

You let your arm drop and lazily hang at your side as your eyes drooped a little more. You were so tired and couldn’t even nap without dreaming of Raptor Tom trying to use you as a test subject for his anti-aging nut cream.

 

Thankfully, you were getting closer to your therapist appointment.

 

**Just two more days.**

 

“Alright, I’m ready for the face wash.”

 

Without looking, you reached for the edge of the tub and picked up a bottle before pushing it past the curtain.

 

This time he didn’t hiss but did grumble before rapidly grabbing at it.

 

Your arm barely had time to stop swinging, after you had dropped it again before Tom had started screaming from inside the shower.

 

The sound of the bottle dropping barely registered as you quickly sprang up and whipped the shower curtain aside.

 

“Ow, ow, owwwwww.”

 

“What is it? Let me see your face,” you reached and grasped at his hands, attempting to pull them away from his eyes.

 

You ended up having to climb into the shower with him so you could move his hands away from rubbing his eyes. Unsurprisingly, he tried to bite at you when you started to struggle to force his eyelids open.

 

“You’ve got to let some water flush your eyes. It’ll help,” you softly, yet firmly, repeated this to him a few times until you had successfully rinsed both eyes.

 

Once done, you let him jerk his head away from you and stretch himself back to his full height. This caused his body to block the showerhead from wetting you more.

 

His eyes were still puffy and red but they opened of their own accord to look at your drenched figure. The blue gaze seemed more intense this way.

 

“Why did you put it in your eyes?”

 

“I didn’t. I had them shut while I ran the washcloth over my face. The Sriracha practically burned through my eyelids. Why’d you even hand it to me?”

 

“Sriracha?!”

 

You glanced down at the bottle on the tub floor but hurriedly averted your eyes back up when remembering that Tom was buck ass naked.

 

Not that you hadn’t unwillingly seen him nude before but it still seemed unprofessional.

 

But even with the quick look, you had definitely been able to identify the bottle as the aforementioned hot sauce.

 

“Tom, why is there Sriracha in your bathroom?”

 

When you didn’t receive an answer, you turned your eyes towards his baby blues and found them blearily, intently watching you.

 

“You’re right. I don’t want to know.”

 

**Two more days.**

 

~

 

**Dr. Jonathan Birch**  
_Therapist, Ph.D., LCSW_

 

There was something about the engraving on the door that bothered you.

 

**Was it the name?**

 

_It did kind of sound familiar._

 

You opened the door and waved silently to the receptionist. She grinned happily at you and pointed to a sign in sheet on the front counter.

 

**Was it the title?**

 

_You didn’t know shit about therapists so how could you know if something was wrong?_

 

After signing in, she handed you a quick form to fill out while whispering, “He should be finishing up with another client soon. Then he’ll flick the green light on and you can go in.”

 

**Maybe it was because you were here based on Tom’s recommendation?**

 

_Yeah. YEAH!_

 

You handed the finished form back and went to try and relax in one of the leather waiting room seats.

 

**You guessed it could be possible that you were just suffering from the jitters.**

 

_Going to any kind of doctor appointment always set you on edge._

 

How did Tom know this guy? Even Luke had been surprised and that should have bothered you more.

 

He was his own man at one point. Knowing how things went with your client, he probably went to school with this guy.

 

You rolled your eyes.

 

Tom was always quick to point out who all he’d attended school with and what their shoe size was. You weren’t really sure why he knew that about everyone but he did.

 

Suddenly, a red light, above the other door in the room, switched to a green hue and you gave the receptionist a confused look.

 

“I didn’t see anyone walk out.”

 

“There’s a different exit for them so that they don’t have to run into people. Some sessions can get very intense.”

 

That should have been comforting. It would leave you with some anonymity. Instead, it terrified you.

 

It took a couple of deep breathes before you finally worked up enough nerve to enter the actual office.

 

The room was shockingly warm and comfortable compared to the sterile waiting room you’d left behind. When you imagine a nice therapist office this was literally what came to mind. The walls lined with bookshelves, the plush sofa, and the wooden desk that looked like it came straight out of a museum.

 

However, your eyes didn’t venture too long before they were drawn to the other occupant of the room.

 

“Hi, thank you for getting me in on such short notice! It’s nice to meet… you…” you trailed off as the figure turned to face you from the large window that lit up the office.

 

His tall frame was fitted with a grey suit that was very clearly tailored to fit him like a glove. It was almost incredibly hard to keep your eyes above the belt. Once you did though, you noticed his short golden locks were coiffed perfectly on his head; and his clean-shaven face graced you with the most boyish grin you’d ever seen.

 

Normally, all of this would have dazzled you. But you were severely stuck on one thing.

 

“What the actual fuck, Tom Hiddleston?!”


	2. Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The plot thickens.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Refer to chapter 1 notes. Honestly, they are the same notes for every story.  
> The gist is to make sure you follow @TerribleTomImagines on Tumblr.  
> Do it.

**It was improbable.**

**No. This was impossible.**

 

Just 45 minutes ago you had left Tom sitting in his house. He’d still had the long ginger curls, bushy beard, and was wearing his Nickelback shirt with just boxers while picking out the marshmallows from his Lucky Charms.

 

Anytime he started picking through Lucky Charms he always ended up taking over an hour to comb through the cereal and make sure he didn’t miss any. The actor liked to leave the marshmallows in the yard as an offering to Loki but really Bobby and the birds always ended up eating them.

 

There wasn’t enough time for him to do all of this.

 

Yet…

 

“But seriously, Tom, how on Earth did you do all this? Without Luke knowing?” you questioned from your safe space, crouched behind the sofa, while you gestured around the office and then towards him.

 

The “therapist” surprisingly kept his distance and calmly propped himself against his desk; legs crossed and hands casually rested in his pockets.

 

Pockets that were so close to his clearly outlined–

 

“I’m not Tom. Though we did get confused for each other a lot when we went to school together.”

 

You fucking KNEW this was going to tie into Tom’s school days somehow.

 

“Hardy-har-har. Yeah and you’re not a raptor, right?” this earned you a raised eyebrow and a confused look.

 

“Tom thinks he’s a raptor or you think he is?” Jonathan asked in the most therapist sounding voice you had ever heard.

 

**I’m not the crazy one, Doc!**

 

You huffed angrily and stood up to slightly lean over the couch before you mumbled, “Tom. He attacked, I mean YOU attacked, me in your house while pretending to be a raptor and I’ve had nightmares about it ever since. That’s why I’m here.”

 

The gentleman ‘hmm'ed and 'ahh'ed for a few seconds. One hand coming up to lightly trace at his lips while murmuring, “And is that all that has happened?”

 

Boy, Tom really wanted you to lay into him… _didn’t he?_

 

~

 

47 minutes later, both of you were comfortably reclined on the couch while you blithely wrapped up the Mullet Incident.

 

“I honestly don’t even know how those pictures didn’t end up on the internet.”

 

Just then a timer went off on Tom/Not-Tom’s desk and he gave it a cursory glare. He’d almost seemed to enjoy listening to some of the bizarre tales of your current employment.

 

Was that normal for a therapist?

 

“Well, that is our time for today. I’d suggest seeing how you sleep the next couple of nights. You might just need the occasional session. But if the dreams persist then you should consider more regular appointments,” his words made you tense as you both stood up from the couch.

 

As if knowing what you were thinking he quickly stated, “Unless me looking like your client bothers you. Then I’d suggest seeing someone else on a consistent basis.”

 

The man seemed apprehensive while watching you tap your fingers against your chin.

 

What do you say?

 

If this is really Tom then you didn’t want to encourage him to continue pretending to be a licensed therapist.

 

But if this isn’t Tom then you didn’t want to offend him any further. Not just because it was the decent thing to do but also because you didn’t want to ruin any chances of the seeing the hot guy again.

 

**Dilemmas. Dilemmas.**

 

“Yeah. I’ll see how the nightmares go and make a decision from there."

 

It was the best you could come up with at the moment but seemed to placate Tom/Jonathan.

 

With a grin and firm handshake, he led you towards the second door and bid you a good afternoon.

 

~

 

Your original plan had been to go home and enjoy the rest of your day lounging around in pajamas and binge-watching Netflix shows.

 

Now, however, you were quickly trying to dodge and weave through slow-ass London traffic to get back to Tom’s house.

 

You had to get there first! It was the only way to call him out on his bullshit!

 

  
Even with the reckless driving it still took over 30 minutes to get there and with your heart pounding loudly in your ear, you pushed your way into your client’s house and yelled, "Where are you?! TOM MOTHERFUCKING HIDDLESTON!!”

 

A quiet voice answered back, “In the kitchen?”

 

A quick peek in revealed the actor sitting on the ground with Bobby.

 

The spaniel was laying quite happily against Tom’s legs as the human continued braiding his fur into little sections.

 

A bewildered gasp escaped you as you walked fully into the room and eyed the man skeptically.

 

His hair was long, curly, and decidedly not blonde. The scruffy beard looked a little more unkempt then when you left, but that wasn’t unusual. Hell, there was even a non-marshmallow cereal bit stuck in it.

 

Tom’s blue eyes squinted at you in confusion as you stood over him and started tugging at his hair.

 

“Ow, ow, ow! I took a shower last night! I promise!"

 

"How did you do it?”

 

You crouched down and flicked the cereal away before running your fingers through his beard.

 

“Alright, alright. When I showered, I used your conditioner. But it makes my beard look better!” he said while slightly shivering at your thorough inspection of his face.

 

How was this possible? The hair on his head was clearly real. There was no way he could have shaven his beard nor cut and bleached his hair.

 

“No. I don’t care about that,” you paused and withdrew your hand, “Well, actually… stop using my conditioner. Seriously. That shit is expensive. But that’s not what I’m asking.”

 

“What are you asking then?”

 

“How did you, you know,” a wild wave of your hands at his face, “pretend to be 'Jonathan Birch’.” Air quotes were indeed used.

 

He stared at you as if you were now the one who had lost their mind. His brows furrowed and he glanced off to the side as if thinking, “Well, I mean we did kinda look alike in school, so we just swapped classes sometimes. Nothing more than that. Did he tell you about that?”

 

“Tom. I know you’re Jonathan and were just pretending. So, just tell me how you did it!” you practically screamed at him, while plopping down heavily to fully sit next to him and Bobby.

 

The dog eagerly thumped its tail and moved his head to rest on your leg.

 

Tom narrowed his eyes and bit at his lower lip. His face clearly reading puzzlement.

 

And you know that right now you had to look like the craziest motherfucker to ever live.

 

“I didn’t pretend to be him. Today. If that’s what you mean.”

 

Fingers tapped in an agitated manner against your knee. You needed a way to call him out on this.

 

Hastily, you pulled your phone out of your pocket and shot off an email to Jonathan Birch’s private email. It had been the one that your client had given you back in Luke’s office.

 

_To: jblcsw@dotcom_   
_From: officialpolicebusiness@dotcom_   
_If possible I would like to go ahead and book an appointment for next week. Please let me know any availability that is open._   
_Thank you,_   
_Y/N_

 

After sending it, you looked up at Tom and smirkingly told him, “I’m going to watch you like a hawk until I get an email ba–”

 

Suddenly your phone dinged. Both you and Tom Hiddleston looked at it in surprise.

 

A frown spread on your face and you felt a cold flush swarm your body.

 

The phone screen showed an alert for one new email.

 

No way.

 

You looked back at Tom, who still had his blue eyes trained on your phone, and then down at his hands where they still grasped at Bobby’s fur.

 

**The email read:**

 

_To: officialpolicebusiness@dotcom_   
_From: jblcsw@dotcom_   
_Unofficially, I want to say: That’s fantastic._   
_Officially, I have to wonder what has happened since you left that would warrant you feeling like another session was necessary so soon._   
_Regardless, I have given it some thought and can’t agree to take you on as a client._   
_It seems unprofessional since I know Tom to some capacity._   
_But mostly… it’s because I’d like the chance to take you out to dinner._   
_If that’s too strong then my apologies. If not then I’ll leave my number at the bottom and you can text me a time when you would be available._   
_I’ll go ahead and also list some other licensed therapists that I highly recommend._

 

You didn’t even bother finishing the email after that. The phone dropped into your lap and your eyes looked back up to watch Tom’s attempts to braid more of Bobby’s fur.

 

Of course, he could have had some kind of automatic away-message set up. Though you couldn’t remember if the email normally had some kind of notice for that or not.

 

There was only one last ditch effort thing to do and that was to call the phone number in the email.

 

Tom was not going to play you like this.

 

After picking the cell phone back up and dialing the number, you waited impatiently for someone to answer. Or for another phone in this house to go off.

 

Tom finally noticed that you were making a phone call and excitedly, silently, mouthed, “Is that my girlfriend or is that the pizza place? Can you ask either one to make a Hot Pocket for me?”

 

“No, restaurants don’t make hot poc– Hey! Is this Jonathan?"

 

"Oh! Hello! I didn’t think you’d call me. I figured you’d text. Well, really I figured you’d think I was coming on too strong and I’d just never hear from you again.”

 

It was definitely the voice of the man you’d seen just an hour or so ago.

 

“No. No. I called because,” you paused and glanced at Tom like he was going to give you some answers, of course, he didn’t, “It just, uh, seemed quicker? Yeah. Quicker. I’d love to go to dinner.”

 

You both chuckled nervously and you missed the weird look that flashed across Tom’s face.

 

“Great. Yes, how about Friday I’ll pick you up around 7?”

 

“Yeah, I’ll text you my address.”

 

“Thank you. I can’t wait. But, I’ve got to go start the next appointment. Text me if anything changes.”

 

The elated feeling expanded as you ended the call and crashed when you glanced at Tom.

 

It was immediately obvious that he was moody.

 

But more importantly…

 

It was completely clear that he was not Jonathan.

 

**Holy shit!**

 

He wasn’t Jonathan. Or Jonathan wasn’t him.

 

You guess you’d be moody too if your employee basically accused you of pretending to do something to mentally fuck with them.

 

“Tom. I’m sorry. I really, really thought this was another… thing… you were doing.”

 

Your client scoffed and shrugged noncommittally, “I just don’t understand why you think you can’t order Hot Pockets from a pizza joint?”

 

“Oh, seriously? I’ll make you some damn Hot Pockets,” you mutter while standing up and moving towards the fridge, “but if you get diarrhea again and for some reason can’t make it to a toilet. Oh no. I’m not cleaning it up. Again.”

 

Tom quickly stood and followed on your heel, “I told you that was Bobby!’

 

Said dog’s tail thumped against the floor in response to his name.

 

"Yeah. Bobby tried to shit in the bathroom sink? Like he could even get up there. Besides, the dog had no reason to then try and use the decorative towels like toilet paper.”

**Author's Note:**

> Internet, please have mercy on my soul.  
> Have I apologized yet? No?  
> Then let me start here.  
> I'm so sorry.  
> Seriously.  
> Bye.


End file.
